


The Prerogative of the Brave

by IamJohnLocked4life



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: A little angst, Guilt, Johnlock Roulette, Love, M/M, One Shot, The Hounds of Baskerville, Vulnerability, a little fluff, mid-episode alternate scene
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-23
Updated: 2014-11-23
Packaged: 2018-02-26 18:24:10
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,954
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2661908
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IamJohnLocked4life/pseuds/IamJohnLocked4life
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It had been a long night, but John couldn't sleep.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Prerogative of the Brave

**Author's Note:**

  * For [deduce-my-heart (linds7)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/linds7/gifts).



> Inspired by a week of looking forward to BBC3 live tweeting The Hounds of Baskerville, and thinking a lot about the complex emotions in that episode, sandwiched between the jealousy of ASiB and the painful loss of TRF. And of course, sharing a room while on a case *^_^*
> 
> Dedicated to deduce-my-heart, my partner in crime, live blogging, and matters of the heart ♥

 

 

Vulnerability is our most accurate measurement of courage.  
_– Brené Brown_

A coward is incapable of exhibiting love; it is the prerogative of the brave.  
_– Mahatma Gandhi_

 

* * *

 

 

It had been a long night, and John was knackered.

Tromping through the moors, that horrible fight with Sherlock, chasing after fake Morse code signals _(honestly, UMQRA? Idiot)_ , and the failed reconnaissance date with Mortimer. God, it had been one strike after another. John just couldn’t win.

And he couldn’t sleep.

His bones ached from the damp, his head throbbed with exhaustion, every muscle begged for release, but his restless mind would not let go. He tossed and turned, twisting up in his sheet, wrapped tightly in guilt.

Sherlock’s voice echoed in his head, scared and terse and tinged with panic.

_Look at me. I’m afraid, John. Afraid._

He had confided in him, revealed his emotions, laid himself bare and vulnerable, and what had John done?

_Yeah, all right, Spock. Just take it easy._

John winced at the memory. He’d tried to lighten the mood, disperse the tension, calm and reassure him, but it came out as dismissive. Belittling. Patronising.

_I think you’ve just gone out there and got yourself a bit worked up._

The more he thought about it, the more he wondered whether he had just been trying to reassure himself. The truth was, seeing Sherlock like that, unhinged and glassy-eyed and shaking, scared the shit out of him.

When Sherlock’s voice rose to a fever-pitch, drawing the attention of everyone in the room, was John’s first thought for Sherlock’s well-being, or his own discomfort? Get the madman under control, never mind he’s quaking with fear and more open and raw than you’ve ever seen him before.

And really, it was all John’s fault. He should have been there with Sherlock when he saw, well, whatever it was that he saw. He fell behind, and got distracted by the lights, which of course turned out to be nothing. As always. Why did he even try to be clever? That was Sherlock’s job, being brilliant, following the _right_ clues, finding the patterns. John’s job was to keep Sherlock safe, and so far, he was failing spectacularly.

He hadn’t been there for him in Dewer’s Hollow, and he hadn’t been there for him at the inn.

He was a doctor, for Christ’s sake. He knew what a panic attack looked like – he of all people knew the trauma of psychological stress – and yet he ignored the signs. Didn’t want to see them, to see Sherlock cracking, falling to pieces in front of him. Better to listen to his words rather than the emotions behind them, follow his frantic deductions and pick at their logic. _Make_ him be rational. Stick to the facts.

Jesus, John had always wanted Sherlock to show his emotions, to open up and share that part of himself.

_People want to know you’re human._

And when he had, John had pushed him away. Those weren’t the emotions he wanted, the messy and vicious and hurtful ones. He wanted soft and tender and perhaps a bit tragic.

_And how are we feeling about that?_

He had wanted to be a shoulder to cry on, not a punching bag to rage against. But maybe that’s what Sherlock had needed tonight. At the very least, he had needed someone by his side, to ground him in reality, no matter how much he pushed away. What he didn’t need was passive aggressive bullshit.

_And why would you listen to me? I’m just your friend._

What, had John been trying to guilt him into being nice? In what universe would that work on Sherlock bloody Holmes?

Sherlock had been sweating and trembling and raving, wound up like some feral creature that had been backed into a corner. Of course he had lashed out when provoked.

_I don’t have friends._

It had hurt, but only superficially; John knew it wasn’t true. It was pure spite, defensive and afraid and just looking to land a blow. And John had let it hurt him, had given up, had left Sherlock alone, as if that were really what Sherlock wanted. As if that were what he needed. John knew better.

He had left Sherlock frightened and fragile and alone.

The click of a key turning the lock brought John out of his guilt-ridden fog. He rubbed at his eyes with the heel of his hand and peered at the bedside clock. 4:42. Three hours in bed without sleep. John flopped back on his pillow.

The doorknob rattled softly as it turned, hesitantly. A slit of light broke the darkness, gradually widening to reveal a halo of black curls. Sherlock paused, listening. After a moment, he continued, carefully, easing the door open inch by inch.

John sighed.

“Come in, Sherlock.”

The figure stood in the doorway, a striking silhouette of graceful curves and sharp angles.

“Don’t worry, you didn’t wake me. I was already up.”

Sherlock nodded and entered the room. He cleared his throat.

“I didn’t know if you’d be in here or with Dr. Mortimer.” He looked around. “Or, in here with Dr. Mortimer.” He was still hovering by the open door.

“No, that was a complete disaster. Thank you _very_ much, Frankland.” John propped himself up on his elbows. “And I wouldn’t bring her back here, Sherlock. I wouldn’t do that to you.”

Sherlock gave a slight nod. His hand rested on the doorknob, fidgeting with the loose fitting. He seemed to waver on his feet for a moment. John waited. Sherlock nodded again, as if making a decision, and closed the door behind him.

John settled back on his bed, aware of the silence that now stretched between them. Sherlock hung his coat in the small wardrobe in the corner, and it occurred to John that he hadn’t been wearing it earlier, at the fireplace. If he had put it back on, it meant he had gone out again. What had he been doing in the hours since their fight?

John never much liked when Sherlock went off to investigate on his own; the man had little regard for his own well-being, and could easily lose perspective when in the thralls of a case. But tonight, it was worse. Sherlock had been terrified of what he had seen on the moor, and the thought that he might have gone back out into the night, who knows where, in that state…

John tried not to think about it.

Sherlock had shed his suit jacket as well, and stood between their beds, shifting his weight from foot to foot, nearly pacing back and forth. It wasn’t the frenzied energy of earlier, but a quiet contained anxiety, nervous and a bit uncertain. He rubbed one hand over the other, fingertips brushing knuckles, alternating in time to his steps. His whole body moved in unsettled harmony. A hypnotic rhythm of neuroses.

John realised he was staring, and shook his head as if to clear it.

“Um, Sherlock? You alright?” As he said it, he knew it sounded idiotic. Of course Sherlock wasn’t alright. He’d practically had a nervous breakdown after a traumatic experience, exacerbated by an emotional confrontation with an unsympathetic prat, and god only knows what he’d been doing since.

“I mean, do you want to talk?”

Sherlock turned away from John. His shoulders hunched, arms wrapped tightly around his narrow frame, collapsing in on himself. He looked oddly small. A tightness clenched in John’s chest.

Tremors ran through Sherlock’s bowed form as he drew in a shaky breath.

“Can you…” he started, his voice barely a whisper. “Would you just –”

Hesitation. Uncertainty. Fear. John’s throat constricted with soft emotion, and it was suddenly very difficult to swallow.

Sherlock shuddered again.

“Touch me. Please?”

The quiet plea broke something deep in John’s diaphragm, and he felt more than heard the air gust out of his lungs. His mouth was suddenly dry, and John swallowed against the sandpaper pain, trying to clear the lump in his throat.

“Of course, Sherlock.” His voice sounded distant to his own ears, completely detached from the thrum of his heart and the heat in his face. He unwound the bed clothes from his torso and pulled them back. Sherlock’s back was still to him, but his head was slightly turned, and John could see him watching  out of the corner of his eye.

“Come here.” John scooted to the far edge of the bed and patted at the empty spot next to him.

Sherlock turned slowly, still hugging himself and shivering, head tilted down. His eyes darted around the room, skittish. The ambient light from the window caught their silver gleam as they flicked up to meet John’s gaze through a fringe of dark curl.

John was reminded of a deer, assessing a potential threat.

The thought hurt.

Whatever Sherlock saw in John’s eyes calmed his body, made the shaking subside, the shoulders release, and John felt himself relaxing in response. He could do this. Even if he couldn’t keep Sherlock safe in the Hollow, he could make him feel safe now.

Timidly, Sherlock sat on the edge of the bed and slipped off his shoes. John reached out a hand and stroked Sherlock’s back. Sherlock leaned back into the touch, and John rubbed his palm in little circles, a petting motion that he hoped was comforting. Sherlock seemed to find it soothing – his fingers loosened their grip on his arms, and his body sank deeper into the mattress as he let his full weight succumb to gravity.

John wrapped his hand around Sherlock’s bicep and gave a gentle tug.

“Come here,” he echoed, the words soft and rough in his throat. Tender and worn. They sounded like he felt, and he wondered if Sherlock could hear it too.

Probably.

John was past feeling exposed. Sherlock had shown him so much already, had just opened himself up again. John owed it to him to be brave.

Sherlock let himself be pulled back into the narrow swath of empty bed, curled away from John but surrounded by his embrace. The single bed was not quite wide enough for two, but when pressed together like this they just fit. John smoothed his hand over Sherlock’s arm, up and down from shoulder to elbow in long even strokes.

Sherlock sighed, a nearly inaudible huff of air accompanied by a noticeable release of tension. His breathing was slowing down, less ragged, more measured.

What had he seen tonight? And where had he been, what had he been doing until half past four in the morning? And what was he thinking, feeling about it now?

Not for the first time tonight, those questions spun in John’s mind, and he had to force his brain to let them go, and refocus on the task at hand. Calming Sherlock. Supporting Sherlock. Being here for Sherlock, right here, right now, however he needed him.

“John.”

John stilled his hand and waited.

“Earlier, when I said…that thing I said. I meant it.”

John’s hand rested on Sherlock’s side, rising and falling with the tides of Sherlock’s breath. John matched his breathing to the subtle undulations, and waited.

“I don’t have friends.”

The room was so quiet and still. John’s ears rang with silence. Sherlock took a deep breath.

“I’ve just got one.”

Sherlock pulled John’s hand down around his waist, and John gave him a tight squeeze.

“I know.”

He nuzzled his nose into Sherlock’s hair and inhaled deeply. When he exhaled, he felt all the stress of the day melt off him in waves. His cells felt lighter.

With his lips pressed to the back of Sherlock’s neck, he fell into a deep, dreamless sleep.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Find me on [tumblr](http://iamjohnlocked4life.tumblr.com/) ~ Please say hi, I love to chat!


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